


Absentia

by Bullfinch



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Illness, M/M, Trespasser DLC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-01
Updated: 2015-11-01
Packaged: 2018-04-29 07:46:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5120528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bullfinch/pseuds/Bullfinch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set during the Trespasser DLC. Dorian returns to Orlais to find Maxwell wasting away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Absentia

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Alternate title: Bad Things Happening to Maxwell Trevelyan, ft. Dorian’s Unabated Feelings of Abject Helplessness. This is like 90% tragedy, enjoy y’all. (Just a heads up: as in my previous Trespasser fic, someone gets their arm cut off. So be aware of that before you wade in.)
> 
> A note about the medical stuff: some of it (like the cachexia) is justified! Some of it (like the lymphatic streaking) is absolutely not. But it looks good. Forgive the liberties taken

Dorian quickly discovers that the Sera’s Orlesian offering is far inferior to the Antivan bottle Varric brought along. He holds the cup of wine away from him a little, but the damage is done; the fruity aftertaste has conquered his tongue utterly and remains there now, an occupying force. When Sera’s head tips back in a wicked cackle at one of Varric’s jokes, Dorian turns and dumps the rest of his cup into the potted fern. By the time he’s finished refilling it with the  _Sol de Rialto_ , vintage 9:21 Dragon, Varric’s making a speech.  _Kaffas._ All he’d wanted was a small gathering, a couple of bottles of wine between friends. This is all a bit grandiose. Dorian tries to intercede. “Varric, there’s really no need—“

Varric’s eyes slide over his shoulder. “Inquisitor! You’re just in time!”

_Venhedis._

Dorian turns. Maxwell is standing there, tying his long hair back, having apparently finished with those tedious ambassadors. “What’s going on?” he asks. So unknowing. Dorian’s fingers tighten around the silver cup. He finds he’s lost the taste for wine. He’s trying to think of what to say when Varric— _curse_  him—starts right up again.  _We’ll miss you!_  Fantastic. Too late now. Maxwell’s face falls a little, but a tentative bloom of hope buoys it up again. Because what if there’s some other explanation? What it isn’t what he thinks?

It is, of course.  _Vishante kaffas._

Varric trundles to a halt at last. “Aaaaand…you didn’t know.”

Maxwell watches Dorian. Ah, now he’s confused. As if the truth isn’t bloody obvious. Varric and the others slink off. Dorian waits for Maxwell to lay into him, to scold and shout, to make him feel like the worst person in the world.

Instead all he gets is a tremorous “You’re…you’re leaving again?”

Maxwell neither scolds nor shouts. He accommodates. He helps. Dorian sets down his cup. “I…yes. When the Council is over…I’ve decided to go back to Tevinter.”

Maxwell doesn’t say anything. Dorian hurries to fill the silence, explains what’s happened, the death of his father, his new position as a magister. It doesn’t make him feel any better. He stays just where he is, leaving space between them. Strange. It’s only been three months since they’ve seen each other, minus those few brief minutes with the Orlesian ambassador earlier, but this, the way they hover around each other, it’s as if they’ve never met before. When Dorian’s finished he stops talking, his breath catching and holding in his chest.

Maxwell’s face is fractured. That much is obvious. But he keeps it assembled rather than letting it break apart. “I—of course.” He nods convulsively. “I know how important Tevinter is to you, you should—“

“Amatus—“

“You should—it’s important. You should go back.”

“Amatus, please—“ He goes forward, at last, takes Maxwell’s hand. “I don’t  _want_  to be apart from you. You are the man I love.”

Maxwell grasps the front of Dorian’s robes as if holding on to him. “It’s all right. I understand.”

Dorian sighs quietly. Getting Maxwell to admit his own hurt is like drawing blood from a stone. “As long as I’m here, I am yours. Completely.”

Maxwell just nods. A better inflictor of guilt than any cutting words. Dorian holds his face and kisses him. “I love you. With everything I have.”

There. A small smile, at last. “I love you too,” Maxwell replies.

But as he tucks back a stray lock of hair Dorian notices the dark circles behind his eyes, the pallor of his brown skin. “Amatus.” Overworking himself again. “You’re tired.”

“Oh, you know.” He waves a hand. “All this business with the Exalted Council has been wearing on me. When it’s over I’ll have some time to rest.”

Dorian had been entertaining indistinct notions of the two of them in bed tonight, naked and writhing and all those other good things. Now he’s much more fond of the idea of making sure Maxwell gets the best possible night’s sleep and wakes up feeling rested and ready to face the day. “Is the bed they’ve given you comfortable? Because if it isn’t, my quarters are actually—“

“No, it’s quite nice. Do you—would you like to stay with me tonight?”

How could he say no to that face? Not that he  _wants_  to say no. “Of course. As I told you, I am yours.”

——

At dinner it seems the entire Winter Palace wants a moment of the Inquisitor’s time. Maxwell responds brightly, with courtesy and interest, but Dorian watches each encounter drain his energy, watches the flicker of resignation that he quashes as each masked noble approaches. As soon as he’s finished his meal—which takes some time, with all the interruptions—Dorian spirits him away, out of the great hall.

“Really, you must learn how to say no.” He lets Maxwell lead. “They would have had you there all night.”

“I can’t say no,” Maxwell responds. “I’m the Inquisitor, and they all have plenty of power. What if a few words between us could save someone’s life one day?”

“And if you pass out in front of the Council tomorrow? Consequences lurk around every corner. Best to ignore them completely and do what you like instead.”

A chuckle. “You sound like Sera.”

Dorian presses a hand to his chest. “Amatus. You wound me.”

Maxwell’s quarters are indeed quite nice—certainly better than those granted to the Tevinter ambassador. Dorian goes to the washroom and finds the bath already drawn, steam rising from the surface. From how warm the room is, it’s probably heated from beneath. There’s a light scent on the air, too, something of juniper. Not very Orlesian. They’re accommodating Maxwell’s Marches heritage. How thoughtful. He notices as well that the tub is of the larger variety, large enough for two. Thoughtful indeed. Dorian starts to undress, shucking his tunic as he comes back out into the bedroom. “I don’t know whether it’s the Game or just your natural charm, but they’ve really gone to every length to make you comfortable.”

Maxwell doesn’t reply. He’s staring at his left glove, frozen, just about to take it off. His right is already on the floor. “Dorian?”

“Hm?”

“Please don’t be alarmed.”

“Well, now that you’ve said that.” Dorian folds his tunic and lays it on the chair beside him. “What is it?”

Maxwell pulls off his second glove.

Dorian knew the Anchor had spread, knew even that it had affected the surrounding flesh—when he left three months ago, Maxwell’s hand and wrist were swollen slightly, warm to the touch, his skin a little redder than usual. Now the green cracks are halfway up his forearm and disappear into his sleeve. His arm is shrunken and corded, red-purple, his fingers trembling. “Max—“ Dorian goes to touch the arm—

Maxwell jerks it away. “No, it—it doesn’t always react well to being touched.”

The green cracks pulse, sullen and angry. “Is it—does it always glow like that?” Dorian asks.

Maxwell hesitates, then nods. “Yes. For two or three weeks now.”

“Have you told anyone?”

“I’ve tried to work on it myself, but it doesn’t like magic either, it sort of—well, it doesn’t matter. No, I haven’t told anyone, not with the Exalted Council coming up. There wasn’t any time.”

The last question. Dorian can hardly bear to ask. “Does it hurt?”

Maxwell’s fingers curl as if caging some fluttering insect in his hand. “Only sometimes,” he says quietly.

Dorian kisses him. For just a moment, with Maxwell’s lips soft and dry against his, he can almost forget the Anchor that flickers between them, can pretend that everything is fine, that they can stay here forever in this place where only they exist. No Tevinter, no Exalted Council, no unknown magic infiltrating Maxwell’s flesh.  

Then they break apart, and Maxwell’s eyes slip down, dark circles welling bruises like under them. Dorian strokes his face. “Promise me you’ll have it looked at,” he says. “By—I don’t know. Someone who’s studied the rifts, perhaps.”

“I will. After the Council. I can’t afford to to show any weakness until the Inquisition’s safe.”

Of course he’d say that. And he won’t be dissuaded, either. Dorian kisses him again. “Come, let’s have a bath.”

Maxwell nods, plainly grateful to be off the topic of his withering hand, and starts to strip. Dorian does as well, laying his trousers over his tunic. Then he turns.

And freezes.

Maxwell’s stepping out of his trousers when he looks up and sees Dorian staring. “What? What is it?”

Cassandra and Maxwell are thick as thieves, and they’ve always enjoyed sparring—she with her sword and shield, he with his staff. Months of it gave him a build that wasn’t quite warrior-like, but close to it. An unexpected thrill, the first time Dorian saw him naked.

It isn’t there anymore. He’s gaunt now, his muscles diminished, his limbs grown thin, the delightful patches of softness at his stomach and hips gone completely. And he’s staring at Dorian like he hasn’t a clue what’s wrong.

The sight breaks Dorian’s heart in two. “Maxwell,” he murmurs, and comes closer. “Have you been eating?”

“Yes, I—oh.” He looks down at himself. “I’m…leaner than the last time you saw me.”

“Leaner? You’re wasting away.” Dorian reaches out, tentative, touches Maxwell’s chest. His ribs poke out, the skin drawn tight over them. “Are you  _sure_  you’ve been eating?”

“Yes! Most of the time, I have been, really. This just…happened anyway.” He smiles at the floor. “Not quite the stunning figure you were expecting, is it? I’m sorry, Dorian.”

Dorian won’t let that one pass. “Amatus. You are the most handsome man I have ever met, and nothing will ever change that.” He lifts Maxwell’s face, kisses him on the lips, on the cheek. “But I am worried about you.”

“I’ll rest after the Council. And I’ll see someone about the mark. I promise I’ll take care of myself, I just—“ Maxwell exhales, his shoulders slumping. “I just have to get through these next few days.”

“Come.” Dorian slips an arm around Maxwell’s thin waist and guides him into the washroom. “The water’s hot, it’ll feel sublime.”

They slip into the tub. It really is quite sublime. For a moment they stay there, letting the heat seep into them; then Dorian reaches back for the soap that sits on the low table against the wall. The scent of sweetgrass. They wash each other, and Dorian is relieved to find again the reflexive closeness that became so natural to them at Skyhold—what was missing when they first spoke this morning. Yet also the persistent pang of concern, fear, even, reverberates in him brassy and bright. How could Maxwell be this diminished? It hasn’t been very long since they parted. Did no one notice this dramatic change? Of course not—he hid it, as he always does whenever he’s hurting, because he is  _insufferably_  brave and self-sacrificing and Dorian was the only one who knew how to barge through all the excuses and effortful smiles and get him to admit he could use some help.

When they’re finished they once again submerge themselves in the heated water. Maxwell makes a little noise of appreciation, then folds himself up against Dorian’s chest, sitting sideways, his head on Dorian’s shoulder. “So how was Tevinter?” he asks.

Dorian kisses his forehead. “Surprisingly unchanged, considering a darkspawn magister just tried to seize control of Thedas…”

As his tale spools out he strokes Maxwell’s hair. Still hard to believe how  _small_  he is now, how insubstantial. Dorian’s half-afraid he’ll simply fade away into nothing during the night. Dorian’s only gotten to the second week of his trip before Maxwell’s fallen asleep. As expected. Maxwell breathes quiet and steady against him, looking at peace, almost. Under the water the Anchor pulses a seditious green.

Dorian holds Maxwell close and tries to soothe his muted fear, the feeling of absolute helplessness.  _After the Council._ Maxwell promised he’d get help after the Council.

Does he even have that long?

Dorian lets him rest there for a few minutes before squeezing him a little and kissing his forehead again. “Amatus, I think your bed might be more comfortable.”

Maxwell blinks, shifting. “Hm?”

“You drifted off.”

“Oh.” He looks up from behind a curtain of wet hair. “In the middle of your story? That was rude of me.”

“Not to worry. I might have done the same, were our roles reversed. Tevinter politics are not the most thrilling subject matter.”

“Mm. I’m sorry.”

Dorian sighs. “You don’t need to apologize.”

Maxwell kisses his neck. “Sorry. I’ll try to stop.”

They dry off and climb into bed. The sheets are softer even than the ones Dorian slept on at home. Maxwell lies on top of him, and Dorian rubs his back, feeling ribs glide by against his palm.

Maxwell finds Dorian’s free hand and twines their fingers together. “I missed you.”

“And I missed you. Very much.” It’s true. His loyalty lies with Tevinter, but while he was there Maxwell’s absence was a piece of him missing, anchored far away.

Maxwell trails a row of soft kisses across his chest. “I’m sorry you had to see me like this. I know I must be terribly dull.”

Dorian smiles at the ceiling. “Amatus, you are never dull.”

“Flatterer.” Maxwell takes a long, deep breath.

Dorian’s smile disappears. Maxwell’s body is so light now, so  _light._

 _After the Council._  Right. Just a few more days. Just a few more days, and Max can finally focus on getting healthy again.

——

The surface of the mirror is cool beneath his hand.

It rippled fluidly when Maxwell walked through but resolved as soon as he disappeared. It seems Solas did not want him followed. One step ahead. As always.

“What if he doesn’t come back?” Dorian murmurs.

“He will. You know him. He’ll keep fighting, for as long as it takes.” Cassandra stands back, as stone-faced as ever. She’s worried, of course, but it doesn’t get to her.

It’s getting to Dorian. He has the urge to snap at Cassandra, quickly dragged under by the urge to weep, to beg the heavens to bring Maxwell back safe. The two sort of mix together in a discrepant, confused seethe of anguish. “He can’t—you saw him. You  _heard_  him. He shouldn’t have come here. How could I have—“

“Come on, Sparkler.” Varric rests a comforting hand on Dorian’s back. “None of us could have stopped him from seeing this through.”

Dorian thinks of Maxwell’s staggered journey here, his face drawn in agony, his eyes glimmering with tears. Thinks of his frantic warning— _get back, please, Maker, get away from me—_ and the awful scream that wrenched out of him when the Anchor burst its confines.

_I love you, Dorian. I wouldn’t trade the time we’ve had for anything._

His fingertips slide down the mirror, leaving faint smears in their wake. There’s a painful catching in his chest, the precursor of a sob, and he suppresses it with distant self-admonishment. “He’s going to die.”

“You don’t know that,” Cassandra counters.

“I do. He did.” Best to begin making himself used to it. “He’s suspected it for weeks. He never told anyone. I suppose he didn’t mind dying, as long as he didn’t bother anyone about it.”

In the mirror Dorian sees Varric grimace. “Well, that…does sound like him.”

“Varric!” Cassandra says sharply.

“Hey, I am neither confirming nor denying.”

“You’re supposed to be denying!”

“Come on, Seeker. The guy didn’t look good. I don’t want to get anyone’s hopes up.”

“I should have been there.” Dorian gazes at his own face in the mirror. So calm. So put-together. That isn’t how it should be. Unfair that he’s the one who’s safe and sound while Maxwell, the better man by any measure, is dying. “I should have realized. I shouldn’t have left.”

Behind him Cassandra shifts, unfolds her arms. “This isn’t your fault, Dorian. You couldn’t have guessed.”

“Couldn’t I? How do we know? I decided to dash off to Tevinter instead.” He waves a hand, his muscles tightening at the casual gesture, a shock of cramped pain shooting down his wrist.

Varric cuts in. “He wouldn’t want you to blame yourself.”

“No, he wouldn’t, although I don’t suppose it really matters what he wants, since he isn’t coming back out of this mirror—“

 _“Dorian.”_ That’s Cassandra again. Not so stone-faced anymore. Dorian shuts up, watches the reflection in the eluvian. This place is actually quite beautiful. The ruins are peaceful, the low yellow-green trees bent like a shelter to replace the fallen ceiling, orange leaves chasing each other across the stone. And Maxwell knelt there among them, clutching his glowing left hand, flinging his arm out as Dorian approached to ward him away. Just before he staggered up the stairs, crashing to his knees again at the top, and then plunged through the mirror—

The eluvian flares and ripples, and Maxwell falls forward into Dorian’s chest.

It takes a half-second for Dorian to realize that this is  _real,_ it isn’t just some desperate dream. “Maxwell,” he gasps, and catches him, holding him upright.

Maxwell’s breathing comes rapid and deep, uncontrolled, and he shakes his head, his tears wetting Dorian’s robes. “I couldn’t. I couldn’t stop him. I’m sorry, I couldn’t do it, I tried, I swear—“

Dorian lowers him to the stone, helping him kneel.  _“Kaffas.”_ He raises Maxwell’s left arm and pushes back the sleeve. “What happened to you?”

“What?” Maxwell blinks. “Oh, he—he took the Anchor. He took it out of me.”

Varric comes closer and flinches. “Ah, shit.”

The forearm is purple-black. The flesh is dead, that much is easy to see, and blood pumps sluggishly from the places where it’s broken. But worse are the angry red streaks that extend past Maxwell’s elbow and reach toward his shoulder. “This needs to come off,” Dorian says. “I don’t know what it’s doing, but it’s certainly doing something.”

“It hurts,” Maxwell mumbles.

Cassandra grasps the hilt of her sword. “Needs to come off—right now?”

“Ideally, yes, but we need a surgeon’s expertise. Don’t want to take off too little or too much. Not to mention I’d like him to keep as much of his blood as we can afford, and surgeons are good with that sort of thing. Can you carry him?”

“Of course. Here, let’s wrap his arm to slow the bleeding.”

“Dorian.” Maxwell reaches out with his right hand.

Dorian takes it. “I’m here, amatus. I’m here.”

The journey is breathless and urgent. Maxwell tells them what happened in the mirror as they go. Dorian is hardly listening, frantic as he is with fear. Despite the jostling on Cassandra’s back, Maxwell slips out of consciousness just after they reach the Darvaarad. When they finally pass through the last eluvian into the Winter Palace, Dorian barks orders at the startled soldiers there. “Fetch a surgeon! The Inquisitor’s life is in danger!”

There is a private infirmary in the palace, normally reserved for the nobility. Cassandra brings Maxwell there, and when the guards at the door hesitate to let them in Dorian nearly sets them both on fire. But Cassandra summons her most intimidating glare and orders them, in no uncertain terms, to  _get out of the way._

They obey. She kicks the door open and, with Dorian’s help, lays Maxwell down on the linen-covered table. His eyelids flutter. “Mm—what’s—what’s happened—“

“It’s all right.” Dorian sits beside him. “We made it back. We’re at the Winter Palace.”

“Dorian?”

“Yes, it’s me.”

“I’m—“ He takes a breath. “I’m sorry.”

Dorian tries to smile. “I’ve told you, you don’t need to keep apologizing.”

The door drifts open a little, and a curious masked face pokes through. Cassandra’s frown deepens, and she rises. “Stay with him. I’ll keep the nobles away.”

“Dorian, I love you.”

Dorian grasps Maxwell’s good hand, squeezes it tight. “I love you too.”

But Maxwell has lost consciousness again.

He’s gotten worse. Even in the short period between Maxwell’s exit from that eluvian and their arrival here, the arm has swollen, the red streaks grown thicker. Dorian does something he rarely has a mind for these days and prays to the Maker to keep Maxwell safe. He deserves to live through this. He deserves to live.  

The surgeon appears, a woman with clipped gray hair carrying a brown leather case. “What’s happened to him?”

Dorian relates as much as he can. Meanwhile the surgeon checks Maxwell’s pulse at his neck, then unwraps the bloody cloth from his arm and examines it. Her lips press together. “Think I can take it off below the elbow. He might still be sick afterwards, though. Don’t like the look of those streaks.”

“Neither do I,” Dorian replies, considering. “Keep as much of the arm as you can.”

“Right. One more thing—I can’t put him to sleep. His heartbeat’s too weak, if I do he might die.” She looks up. “I’ve got a few good ways to control the pain, but I can’t make it disappear. If he wakes he might be wondering why in the Void his arm hurts so bloody much. Can you keep him calm?”

“Yes, I can.”

“Good. Then I’ll get started.”

Dorian averts his eyes. It’s not that he’s  _afraid_  of a little blood, but this is Maxwell who’s losing a limb, who’s sick and in pain and has borne such a great burden for so long only to end up like this. The surgeon makes the first cut. Maxwell moans a little but doesn’t move. It’s like that for a little while—a twitch here, a quiet nose there, but he stays unconscious. A blessing. Every now and then Dorian looks up, only to see a bloody, gaping wound with a silver instrument or two sticking out of it. Best not to be conscious for that.

But there is no reprieve to be had, not yet, not for Maxwell Trevelyan. The surgeon’s just started to cut through the bone when he shivers awake at last, his eyes slitting open, his face drawing in pain.

 _Kaffas._  Dorian reaches out and tilts Maxwell’s face gently toward him, away from the surgery. “Amatus.”

“Dorian?” He tries to turn his head, but Dorian holds him there, firmly. “What’s happening?”

Dorian takes a breath. “Do you remember when you came out of the mirror and we looked at your left arm?”

Maxwell blinks, confused. “There was—something wrong with it—“

“Yes. And it—couldn’t be saved. So we need to remove it.”

His face breaks open in fear. “Dorian—“

“I’m here, amatus. I’m right here.”

“Wait, please—please don’t, I’ll be fine, you don’t have to take it off—“

The helplessness again, washing through him. Dorian squeezes Maxwell’s hand. “We have to. It was killing you.”

Tears gather in Maxwell’s eyes and slip out the corners. “It hurts, it hurts—“

“I know, amatus—“

“It hurts, please, Dorian—“

Dorian kisses his hand. “Only a little longer.” He hasn’t any idea whether or not that’s true, but it’s all he can think to say. “Just trust me, Max.” He still holds Maxwell’s face away from the surgery site, and wipes his tears away with one careful thumb.

Maxwell swallows, his gaze darting to the left, then fixing on Dorian again, still terrified. He squeezes Dorian’s fingers.

The surgery drags on and on.  _A little longer._  With each passing second Dorian is proven yet more wrong. Maxwell’s fear doesn’t abate, only grows with each flinch of pain. Always he looks to Dorian, and there’s such  _trust_  in his eyes, as if maybe it really is only a little longer, even as the moments tick by. Because Dorian wouldn’t have lied to him. Would never do that.

Then the surgeon grimaces. “This might be unpleasant.”

Maxwell chokes back a quiet sob, but he controls himself quickly. “It’s—it’s fine. I’ll be fine.”

“All right then. Brace yourself.” She dips her instruments into the yawning wound.

Maxwell screams.

His body bucks off the bed, and the straps restraining his left arm pull tight. Dorian rises, alarmed and powerless. “Max—Max, look at me—“

But the scream breaks off, and Maxwell falls back to the bed, unconscious once more.

“Almost done with the amputation,” the surgeon says. “Then I’ll try to draw the wound closed.”

_Only a little longer._

Dorian sits again, and clasps Maxwell’s hand in both of his own.

——

“Has there been any change?”

Dorian glances up at Cassandra. “A little. I…I think.”

She watches him for a moment, then drags a chair over and sits, handing him a plate of food.

Maxwell lies on the bed before them, asleep.

As he has been for three days. After she was finished removing the dead flesh and closing up the wound, the surgeon gave Dorian a half-dozen tinctures.  _The greenish ones for the pain, the milky ones for fever. And keep him drinking. Water, always, and broth if he’ll take it._ He wakes occasionally, clumsy and confused. It’s then that Dorian tips water into his mouth, helps him into the washroom.  _The potions will make him sleepy and muddle up his head. Give him three days, then start weaning him off._ During each of these brief periods of wakefulness (if not lucidity), there is a moment when he discovers his missing left hand, and he looks to Dorian, questioning, fearful.

Dorian tried to explain the first time, but it was clear the message didn’t make it through. He stopped trying after that.

“How are you?” Cassandra asks. “No one’s seen you outside this room in three days.”

Dorian heaves a long sigh. “I’m worried. If I leave his side I’ll be more worried. So yes, I’ve stayed.”

The table at the foot of the bed is littered with gifts. A carved wooden cormorant from Blackwall. A pair of flowers that Sera was definitely  _not_  supposed to pick, but Max commented on how much he liked them earlier in the week, and she never much cared for rules anyway. A paper dog Cole folded from one of Varric’s unread letters. An expensive bottle of brandy from Bull. Cassandra has not left anything, but she comes by at least twice a day and sits with Dorian, saving him from the silence that is otherwise broken only by Maxwell’s labored breathing.

Dorian eats the supper she brought, although he isn’t hungry. Cassandra talks about nothing in particular. The events of the day, what the others from the Inquisition have been up to. She doesn’t bother mentioning the political climate. It can’t be good, and is likely best avoided.

When she leaves she takes Dorian’s empty plate with her, and clasps him on the shoulder. “He is strong. He will be all right.”

“Yes,” Dorian says. The reply is automatic, the same one he gives to all her reassurances. The fact is, neither of them have any idea whether Maxwell will be all right. To play host to ancient elven magic for three years, the kind of magic that forced an amputation of most of his forearm—will he recover from that? Who can say?

Dorian stares at nothing for a moment, then reaches for the book he left on the night table. A compendium of legends from Marches history. He’s about forty pages in. It seems his attempts at progress always end with him reading the same passage over and over, absorbing none of it, his mind otherwise occupied by the fact that the man he loves lies skeletal and sick before him and there isn’t a blasted thing he can do about it.

But he might as well try reading, because Maxwell’s only had a half-dose of those two tinctures today and he  _still_  hasn’t woken up. The book will be a welcome distraction. Last he remembers he was learning about Cade Arvale, the last champion of Tantervale, a woman who stopped the Nevarran campaign through—

“Dorian?”

The tome slips from his hand and falls to the floor.

“Amatus?” He lunges forward out of his chair.

Maxwell is stirring, squinting in the candlelight. “How long have I been asleep?”

“Three days. I thought—I wasn’t sure you’d wake.” Dorian finds tears stinging his eyes. Now that’s embarrassing. He rubs at them hastily.

“Dorian.” Maxwell reaches up and brushes his face. “It’s all right. I’m all right.”

Dorian hiccups out a laugh. “Yes, loses his arm and sleeps for three days and he swears he’s all right, of  _course_  he is—“

“I am. I feel better. I’m going to be fine, I know it.” He struggles to sit up.

Dorian helps him, grasping his one remaining arm, pressing a hand to his back so he can sit against the headboard. The sheet falls from him, pooling on his lap. He’s even thinner now than when Dorian first saw him last week, and the simple act of sitting up makes him tremble with effort. His face is gaunt, and his bones show through his skin.

“Amatus.” Dorian leans forward kisses him.

Maxwell’s lips are hot, as is the rest of him, the fever having not yet burned itself out. But he responds eagerly, and pulls Dorian closer with his stump of an arm. “I’ll be all right, and so will you,” he whispers. “There’s no strange magic trying to kill me anymore. We can be to—“

_Together._

Dorian flinches back. A few more days, if that, and then he’ll return to Tevinter. They won’t be together anymore. Maxwell realizes his mistake, and shakes his head. “Listen, it doesn’t matter how many countries separate us. I’ll still love you.”

“And I you.” Dorian kisses him again. “But as long as I’m here, I am yours.”

Maxwell tugs at his robes. “Can you come here?”

So Dorian leans against the headboard, and Maxwell curls up against him. He smiles faintly. “I used to be bigger than you.”

Dorian heaves a sigh, Maxwell’s body feather-light against his chest. “Promise me you’ll take care of yourself.”

“I promise.”

“And you’ll eat. Twice as much as you normally do.”

“All right.”

“And you’ll get someone to help strengthen you up again. Cassandra, maybe, if she’s nearby.”

“Dorian, I  _will_  do all that. I  _want_  to get better.”

“And promise you’ll speak with me three times a week, if not more.”

Maxwell kisses his neck. “I have a feeling it’ll be more."

Dorian strokes Maxwell’s hair. “I can’t—I can’t lose you.”

“It’s over. You won’t have to.”

“I almost did. Amatus, I was— _terrified._  You can’t imagine what it was like.” He wraps his arms around Maxwell’s shoulders. “You were going to die. And there was nothing any of us could do to stop it.”

Maxwell turns his face into Dorian’s chest. “I’m sorry.”

Dorian lets out a weak chuckle. “You might be the only person I know who’d apologize for almost being killed.”

“It’s a habit! It’s difficult to break.”

Dorian holds him tighter—so small, so  _fragile._  “If you ever need help again, please tell me.  _Please._  If you think not telling me will make me worry less, then let me assure you, the truth is quite the opposite.”

“Mm. Yes. That’s another habit. But I’ll try and break it.”

He smiles at the ceiling. “I think I’ll stop berating you now.”

“Oh, I don’t mind. You do it out of love.”

“Indeed. Amatus…” Dorian murmurs. “I have treasured every moment I’ve ever spent with you.”

Maxwell wraps his arm around Dorian’s waist and squeezes him a little. “We will see each other again. This isn’t goodbye.”

 _It almost was._ Dorian doesn’t reply.

“Er—would you mind lying down? I know I’ve done nothing but sleep, but somehow I’m still  _very_ tired.”

“Of course.” Dorian slides down, lying flat.

Maxwell crawls on top of him, then lets out a groan. “Maker. I still have to talk to the Exalted Council.”

“Not tonight. Or tomorrow, or even the day after that.” Dorian rubs his back in slow, wide circles. “Get some rest, amatus. You deserve a few days of doing nothing.”

“So do you,” Maxwell mumbles.

Dorian tries not to focus on what happens after, when the Council is over and they must part again. For now there is only this, only the two of them. And that a miracle in itself.

 _I should have been there,_ he thinks. But he’s here now, and that, it seems, is enough.


End file.
